Dear Fear

A blast from the past lands at the precise moment it is needed

Photo by Dorian Mongel on Unsplash

Like opening a book of auguries or reading the tarot cards in search of a message that speaks to this present moment, I was looking through a folder with bits and pieces of writing, when I came across this Letter to Fear.

It was written back in February 2021, when the UK was gradually emerging from lockdown, and the Sacred Circle, a cozy group of writers at the London Writers’ Salon, were working through Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. We had been meeting up online every Saturday, and had already worked through The Artist’s Way at the end of 2020. This letter was inspired by that practice.

Dear Fear

I am writing to inform you of a change of operational arrangements that will come into immediate effect.

I have only recently acknowledged your existence. You have been a stowaway in the ship of my life since it left port. You left traces of your existence and of the effect it had on the rest of the crew, but no crew member dared speak out about you, for fear (ha!) of acknowledging you officially.

You were suffered to carry on raiding the pantry at night to munch on our food rations, to drink more water than your own fair share, sometimes even to intrude into the captain’s cabin (Rational Sofia) to disturb her sleep. Nominally, Rational Sofia was the captain of her own ship, but in reality, you would often gate-crash the bridge, shouting “Reef straight ahead! Whoaaa!” You’d grab hold of the helm, and ignoring the route plan that Captain Rational Sofia had so meticulously drawn up, you’d change the ship’s course from a straight line to endless circles, as the ship ran out of steam and purpose. At other times, when the ship ran into a storm, you would creep out of your hiding place and run around the decks, whipping up panic among the hands on deck.

You are an important member of the crew; well, not exactly crew, as you have had no duties except interfere with everyone else’s…still you’ve been with us since we left port. And even though we would all have preferred not to have you on board, I, Captain Rational Sofia, can’t just throw you overboard in the middle of the ocean. I know that deep down you’ve always tried to protect the ship and everyone on board. On the other hand, I can’t let you carry on as you have done for so long. I will now put my ship in order.

I have now accepted that you will always be on board and that you will try to creep up on me and the crew at odd times. From now on, these are the arrangements:

Everyone will acknowledge your presence in a special ceremony: we will welcome you, and tell you that you don’t need to hide any more. You will share a cabin with a pleasant crew member, Hope. You know her, of course: she’s the one that has often received your unwelcome attentions. But this time, in exchange for our welcome, you will learn to toe the line, and to coexist with her, even if your natural impulse may be to strangle her. That’ll be your journey.

On sunny days you will be able to sit on a deck chair, travel rug over your lap, and enjoy the plain sailing. When we sail into a storm, I expect that you will naturally do your spiel of running around spreading panic (“we are sinking!”, “all hope is lost!”). But you will have to forgive us if we ignore what you say and rather concentrate on what needs to be done to sail through the storm. Oh, and the bridge will be strictly out of bounds: I will be charting the route, and the First Officer (Creative Sofia) will be navigating the ship.

I trust that these arrangements will be acceptable, and I look forward to the rest of our journey together.

With my best wishes

Rational Sofia

Master of the vessel Sofia A K

The heart meets the (left) hand in an embrace of imperfection